Your suffering is a bridge.

He described himself not as a revolutionary writer but one born into a revolutionary situation. He was born out of wedlock in the USA a hundred years ago – black, poor, despised by his adoptive father, the eldest of nine siblings and to top it all, a homosexual. His name was James Baldwin. He knew the meaning of suffering and could talk and write about it with striking beauty.

“I can only tell you about yourself, as much as I can face about myself.

As it happens to everybody who’s tried to live. You go through your life for a long time and you think that no one has ever suffered the way I’ve suffered. My God! My God! Then you read something, you hear something and you realise that your suffering does not isolate you.

Your suffering is your bridge. It tells you that many people have suffered before you, that many people are suffering around you and always will.

All you can do is hopefully bring a little light into that suffering. Enough light so the person who is suffering can begin to comprehend his suffering. Begin to live with it and begin to change it.

We don’t change anything. All we can do is invest people with the morale to change it for themselves.”

Indeed. We can and we do. Thank you for your light, James Baldwin. Happy centenary.

[ CORe: Bringing light to those who have been unfortunate enough to lose a child.]

It’s a story. It’s not a story.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

Last weekend I was part of a team of volunteers. The Compassionate Friends hosted a summer retreat for parents who have lost a child to suicide or substance use. We expected seventy parents to arrive, some as couples, some by themselves. Many of us drove for many miles through road works and traffic jams. Some changed trains more than once and persevered through serious delays due to fatalities on the tracks on two successive days. Even though their own hearts ached, they traveled from all over the UK to Leeds.

The venue was a new one, Hinsley Hall. It was true to the pictures on its website – majestic. Having never worked there before, many of us arrived a day prior, to familiarise ourselves with the space and allocate rooms to activities depending on their size and suitability, getting to know the staff and setting out folders, notice boards and programes.

The job at hand was to belong to those who attended and have them belong to us. I went up to my room and drew the curtain. I gasped at the view. My window looked over a deep-green lawn with dark old trees and two parallel hedges with patches of yellow.

As the participants arrived through the gates, we welcomed and escorted them despite their visible anxiety and fatigue, a reluctance to acknowledge their eligibility to be here, attending this retreat. Slowly, cups of tea, coffee and glasses of water loosened the atmosphere.

At the Writing workshop, words like ‘disassembled’ and ‘brown silt’ were shared and felt. A bronze sculpture of a young woman in the courtyard, standing with her arms wide open was a constant encouragement to open our hearts.

Over the next couple of days, each of us felt seen, listened to, acknowledged and our grief felt witnessed. Friendships were born. There was much laughter and many tears flowing through truck-loads of memories. Grace was at work. It was allowing something within us to soften and relax.

At the end, one mum said she met some lovely people and found much comfort and connection. Another said, she met herself, this time with gentleness.

Being there, volunteering, was a good way to honour Saagar’s life and mine. What better way to spend our days than to hold our kids, ourselves and each other in a warm embrace?

I am here. He is here.

A Blessing.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

Someone shows you the mirror without knowing he’s doing it

God knows now and then you need to look into it

Who holds you as if our very existence depended on it

Who is willing to lose the world as if all that mattered was you

Who arrives from another town in the wee hours of the morning, lighting you up

Whose voice and touch form the rhythms of your life as you listen with your eyes closed

Who sings with you believing he can’t sing not knowing he’s doing a sterling job

Who anticipates the little things you worry about like the eggs running out

Who reminds you to take your meds in time

Who steps on an unknown path with you without a doubt that everything will be fine

Who gives his breath to your voice so you can be heard far and wide

Who sees all your brave attempts at hiding the things that hurt

Who says thank you to the green mint before picking a few leaves from it

Who chooses to walk beside you as if regardless of terrain life was a long walk

Who holds your hands in his knowing the precious gems of another love inside your fist

Who knows these gems bring sparkling tears and you will never let them go

Who loves you back as if you were the only woman in the world

As if love was the only substance the world was made of

Some say God gives with one hand and takes away with another.

I see Her giving with both hands open, leaning into me

Do we really need another one?

Posted by kidsaregifts20

No one reads books anymore they say.

Publishing is a dying industry they say and I love books. I know hundreds of people who do.

Presently I am in the world of trying to get a book published. I am witnessing an interesting phenomenon of humane, helpless and kind rejections such as this: “We think you are an emotive writer and your story is very moving. It would undoubtedly provide comfort to those who have lost children, whether by suicide or otherwise. But there is so much work that goes into publishing a book and we have to believe that it can work commercially to a certain degree. I worry that it would be very difficult to get media attention/reviews and therefore retailer traction in this case.”

These letters leave me strangely encouraged to persist and keep refining the manuscript, keep working on the craft of writing and keep remembering what this is about. I write in singular first person but denote the third person plural. I am They, Them, We.

It’s about kissing the ground that supports my weight. It is where my son, all my ancestors and circumstances stand in me through all the seasons and storms. In every moment, it is and has been my home whether I like it or not. It tells me who I am and how, from my very foundations I can hold a conversation with life even when it seems terribly treacherous. Strangely, it is also a place of grace that surprises me by its ability to humble and elevate me, even after being dragged through the mud. It enables me to step off onto a softer ground of gentle understanding where grief finds expression as what it truly is, pure love, often known by safer names such as compassion and connection. I kiss this wise ground that has taught me what it means to be free, be love and be human.

One way or another, I am sure my words will find their way to those with whom they will resonate. If you have any helpful ideas around publishing, please do write a comment. Thank you for reading. This blog is the birthplace of the book.